Page 42 of Inked & Bloodbound
I shake her away and leave her in a cloud of empty euphoria, her eyes pressed shut, swaying and grinding alone to the beat with my lingering mood still hanging in the air. The growing crowd of revelers doesn’t even flinch as I shove through them to the shitty makeshiftkitchen in the back, in search of Eddie. The man who keeps them dancing.
The back room stinks of acrid body odor and stale beer, and when I open the door, a cloud of cigarette smoke billows out, revealing a small circular table with several figures hunched around it. At the center sits a man in a filthy Slipknot T-shirt and a camo trucker hat with frayed edges. When I cross the threshold, he barely glances up from the spread of cards in his hand, regarding me with irritation whilst chewing on a toothpick.
“Eddie?” I ask.
“Depends who’s asking,” he grumbles.
To his side is a young female who looks as if she’s been dragged through Hot Topic, her soulless eyes ringed with kohl, staring daggers into me from across the room. Eddie’s bruised neck has the telltale signs of feeding, so I guess he’s not one of us. Makes sense that the Sixth would stack the flop houses with familiars, too. Someone living to keep the drugs and alcohol flowing twenty-four-seven. Someone too afraid to steal from them.
I look around at the degenerates in the room. “I’m here to collect the package for transfer.”
“On whose authority?” the female asks.
“Lazaro Malvini.”
The room fills with the sound of shuffling. Cards hit the table and furniture shift back as Eddie signals for the players to leave. They grouse, but the female vamp silences them with a look. She lazily slides off her chair like a displaced cat and exits with the rest, but not before shooting me a withering look that could strip the flesh from my face.
“This better be quick,” she hisses as she herds the others out. “We were having fun.”
Eddie takes a long pull from his beer bottle, watching me carefully. “So you’re the pickup. Julian said someone would be by.” He gestures to the threadbare couch in the corner where two young women are curled together like sleeping kittens. “Mara and Brielle. Good earners, those two. Shame to see them go.”
“You got their cut?” I ask.
Eddie reaches under the table and produces a rumpled envelope thick with cash. “Thirty grand total. Not bad for a couple of college girls, eh?” He hands it over, then leans back in his chair. “You know, since you’re here… I got some premium stock if you’re interested. I got a blonde in the back fed on nothin’ but champagne and strawberries for the last week. I hear she’s sweet as candy.”
I force myself to look interested. “Actually, I’m looking for someone specific. A girl I used to feed on regularly. Lost touch when she moved.” I pull out my phone, show him Megan’s photo. “I’m willing to pay big to find her again.”
Eddie’s expression shifts, becomes guarded. He studies the image for a long moment, then examines me with fresh suspicion. “Where’d you say you knew her from?”
“I didn’t.”
“Right.” He takes another swig of beer, buying time. “Well, can’t say I recognize her.”
I pull out a roll of hundred-dollar bills, peel off five of them, and slide them across the table. “Maybe this helps jog your memory.”
Eddie’s eyes lock onto the money, and his finger twitches towards it as if he’s weighing his options. After a moment, he reaches out and palms the bills.
“Last I heard, she was headed to the same place you’re taking these two,” he says, nodding toward the couch. “But that was months ago. Could be anywhere by now.”
“You’re the kind of guy who knows how to keep his mouth shut. Right, Eddie?”
“For that kind of money? I’m deaf, dumb, and blind.” He taps the side of his nose and pockets the cash, jerking his thumb to the corner as he stands. “Want a hand loading these two into your car?”
I look at Mara and Brielle, still unconscious, still breathing. Still human, for now.
“Yeah,” I say, as something miserable twists at me. “Let’s get them loaded up.”
14
LILY
My teenage bedroom is the same as it was when I was sixteen. It is an IKEA-dominated, modest double, with a blue patterned bedspread and a few limp scatter cushions.
I stand in the doorway for a moment, taking it in. The room feels smaller than I remember. There’s only one poster up: a framed Lady GagaBorn This Wayalbum pullout that has Gaga’s red lips stretched and roaring from the frame. Her eyes are heavily lined in thick black eyeliner drawn to an exaggerated dark point, and her chaotic platinum-blonde hair fills the frame.
Aside from a mirror and a string of lights, it’s the only thing hanging up. Despite Pat’s insistence that I try to settle in, I never did much more to the walls. I think on some level I was afraid we’d have to move again at some point, so I didn’t ever allow myself to get comfortable. Not properly. The glossy white flat-pack bookshelves Pat so kindly built for me remained bare save for a book here, a bit of costume jewelry there, and a purple iPod nano with the color chipped and the edges dented.
I flop onto the bed and pull out my phone, checking for messages. Nothing from Cassini. My thumb hovers over the singletext thread between us. Just one message from me, sent a few hours ago: